


look on down (everybody seems so far away from me)

by maybe_now



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Episode: s02e12 It's a Trap, Extended/Missing Scene, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship, References to Depression, Some angst, THEIR FIRST KISS WAS LATER THIS EP OKAY, and I love this ship, honey we're going to cleveland, i love wes gibbins more than i love this show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:32:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_now/pseuds/maybe_now
Summary: "window or aisle?"2x12 extended and missing scenes





	look on down (everybody seems so far away from me)

**Author's Note:**

> hi im still upset that the show killed off wes gibbins.
> 
> no lie, I was gearing up to write a whole slew of wes x laurel... and then they killed him.... and I was devastated... and i haven't watched since.  
> anyways this has been in my drafts for like a year and I really needed to finish this. in my most ambitious daydreams, I would write a novel length Wes Lives AU fix-it, but idk if I'm emotionally ready (or capable of multichapters tbh)
> 
> to anyone reading- this ship, man. this shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. i will go down with this ship. and i won't put my hands up and surrender. i think im high from finally finishing this thing.
> 
> (oh, title credit to the song look on down from the bridge by mazzy star. i definitely recommend it.)

 

 

 

_look on down (everybody seems so far away from me)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“window or aisle?”_

 

The fear doesn’t grip him like it used to.  Looking down, suspended in a metal trap high in thin air, there are no clouds cushioning him from the ground.  It would be a straight shot to the surface.

(Not like clouds would support him anyway.)

Wes supposes he should feel happy he’s over his fear of flying, his fear of heights, he supposes he should feel confused, relieved…

He should feel _something._

But Wes only feels tired.  And somehow, that feeling’s become hollow too.

Laurel fell asleep a little after take-off.  Despite the luxuries of first class (actually having room for his long legs, a comfortable seat that supports his head), Wes hasn’t managed.

He doesn’t rest anymore, not really.

 

 

 

After whipping out her black card and steamrolling over his protests, Laurel stays.

“It’s on my father,” she had said, and he knows not to ask.

All it took was him saying there wasn’t enough in the Mahoney file to figure out the connection and Laurel had made for his laptop, calling up flights. Like she couldn’t get away from Philadelphia fast enough, that only the distance an airplane could provide would suffice.

She had a fight with Frank, she’d said, and he let her shy away from the details, but it has to be more than that. Because she looks weird.

She’s looked weird since bursting through his door.  Weird, because there’s a sheen to her eyes.  Weird, because behind her determination, she looks shaken.

Laurel never looks shaken.  

(Well. Except for when Annalise was begging for a bullet.)

And she’s never mentioned her father.  Just like he’s never mentioned his mother.

It’s incredible, really, how little he knows about her.  How little she knows about him, when it comes down to it.

They’re so close, but sometimes it’s like they aren’t friends.

(It’s just not the right word.)

But he _knows_ her. He knows her better than anyone. They’ve shared cover stories and a mountain of lies.

Laurel snaps his laptop shut and gathers up another file from Annalise’s mystery case.  _Charles Mahoney_.  She toes off her shoes, plops down on his bed with a small sigh.

He stands, staring at the desk chair she just vacated.

They’re going to Cleveland. 

He’s going back to Cleveland.

He hasn’t been back since he finished community college.

As he takes a seat, his body doesn’t seem as drawn to the floor as before she settled into his space, making it hers, theirs.

The sound of shuffling papers, that quiet exhale she does when she settles down to read a new document… It strikes so familiar that the desperation that crashed down on him the moment he opened that folder and saw the dates of the trial—that desperation, it almost eases.  His next breath isn’t as tight.

Wes picks up the nearest stack of papers, thumbing through them. He tries to mask the shaking of his fingers just in case she’s paying attention. 

He’s hopped up on something, lack of sleep, too much caffeine… dread… This anxious energy, it’s exhausting.

Wes had an hour and a half head start over Laurel, but as he scans the document in front of him (has he already read this one?) it’s as if he hasn’t been reading a damn thing this whole time.

It’s like nothing will stick, except for: Charles Mahoney. Cleveland. The place his mother used to work.  The fucking dates.

It’s a testament to how fucked up his life is that Annalise, despite having this puzzle that connected to his past up her sleeve the whole goddamn time, chose to leave it at his door after he had gotten himself locked in a psych ward.

”So I booked the 7:15 flight… which is in about eight hours.”

Laurel’s looking at him like she’s been looking at him for a while.   

“I can, uh,” she sniffs for a second, and it reminds him again that she was crying on the way in, “stay and help go over the case?”

Wes nods, giving her permission as if she hasn’t already started, as if she hasn’t insinuated herself into his life and into his problems without him ever asking. 

She burrows further into the bed in response.

“So. Annalise knows your mom.”

It’s a statement, but really a question.

The unfortunate part of accepting her help is this:

“ _Knew_.”

Wes looks away, looks down at the piece of paper he’s gripping.  Blond-haired blue-eyed Charles Mahoney grins up at him.

“She…“ He has her full attention—she may as well be dissecting him with her eyes, and the intensity contradicts her relaxed posture.

It’s one of the most Laurel things he knows. The familiarity eases the sting of the words that come next.

“She committed suicide right around the end of this trial.”  His voice stays even, but he isn’t strong enough to watch the words hit. It’s the second time he’s said it today, and he already watched the psychiatrist cry over his tragic backstory.

Wes waits, audibly focusing on where Laurel sits on the bed, but no matter how hard he strains his ears, he can’t hear anything.

No sharp intake of breath, no sigh.

And as the moment stretches on, she doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t say sorry.

He’s torn between wanting to look at her, see her reaction, and never looking at her again.

She’s been the only one who always believed in him, never called him waitlist, had his back. From the start.

  What she thinks of him, it _matters_.

“You think the trial and Annalise are related to it.”

It’s a conclusion, not a question.  Wes can’t help but feel a little thrown when he finally looks up. She’s just digging through her stack of papers with greater purpose.

She meets his gaze, arching an eyebrow.  Her eyes are still red, a little glassy, but nothing else he sees has changed.

Laurel didn’t say sorry.  And he’s a bit surprised with how grateful he is that she didn’t.

He realizes she was expecting an answer, and the words tumble out of his brain as he tries to get them out.

“Yeah—I mean, they have to be.  I’m pretty sure my mother worked for the Mahoney’s company, or something, so maybe she got caught up in all of this. Why else would Annalise give me this?”

Laurel’s focus remains locked on him. She’s so steady, even with the evidence of her tears—it makes him feel like whatever sanity he has left, he’s losing it, and she’s witnessing the destruction.  He can’t hold her gaze.

“Maybe she really _is_ just doing this to mess with me, to make me even crazier.”

What’s sad is that he’s not really kidding anymore, not about this. 

What’s sad is that Laurel doesn’t deny it, just like she didn’t earlier ( _because I asked her to help me get you out of the psych ward and she said no.)_

“We’ll find more in Ohio,” she says, and that’s that.

They get lost in their review, passing pages, folders, back and forth without needing to speak. 

They’ve done this before; along the way they’ve become a team.

 

 

Wes shouldn’t be surprised that Laurel falls asleep.

Two hours ago, she’d scooted over on the bed to make him a spot next to her.  His back ached from leaning over the desk. The move was a no brainer.

He didn’t take note of how good her hair smelled, or the comfort of her body heat next to him.

With a partner, Wes regained his focus. He must have been so locked in on connecting the dots that he didn’t notice her go quiet, didn’t notice her starting to nod off.

Now, though.  Now Laurel is still, face tipped towards his hip. 

Impossible to not notice.

She’s lying on top of the blankets, and it’s not worth disturbing her.  She may not be having as much problem sleeping as he does (she isn’t the one who got herself locked in a psych ward trying to get sleeping pills) but there’s no doubt that with their lifestyle, rest is precious.

Some of her hair has fallen across her face, and he wants, he just _wants_ , to know what it would feel like to brush the strands back into place, to have the pads of his fingers skim across her cheek.

But she has Frank, even if they’re fighting, and, well.  He’s… Rebecca is dead.

He retracts his searching fingers back into a fist and slides off the bed, careful to minimize his impact on the shitty springs before padding to his closet.

Laurel has become the one person he knows he has in Philly.  After all, Annalise doesn’t care for him anymore ( _she doesn’t want to see you_ ), and he can’t really blame her. 

He shot her.                                                  

Killed her husband.

(He doesn’t care much for himself anymore, either.)

He doesn’t have any extra blankets, so he grabs one of the remaining clean flannels stacked on the top shelf of his closet.  He may as well not have a heater for how little he uses it— he’s only turned it on in spurts when times got desperate in winter.

His fingers clutch the shirt tightly as he takes in the image of Laurel sleeping in his space. 

Wes eases back down on the bed, back to the headboard, wincing at every hint of noise.  There’s nothing quiet about his apartment—the busy street outside provides a constant but inconsistent lullaby and the walls are thin, not to mention the large number of undergraduates that live and party in this building. 

It isn’t quiet in his place, but somehow, a sleeping Laurel amplifies some hidden stillness.  Even his heartbeat seems loud.

 Wes tucks the flannel around her.  She seems smaller than usual, lying next to him on the bed.  It’s easy to forget just how much taller he is than her when her presence is so solid.

(They also spend significant parts of their time together sitting, studying, researching, which helps level the playing field.) 

She doesn’t wake, but the inescapable jostle of the bed compels her to move.  With soft, sleepy noises, she shifts more on her side, leaning into him and curling an arm right above his knees.

The time at Middleton Law has been such hell that even this, this innocent touch, has that spot tucked inside his ribs caving in and imploding, and he aches.

He wants to run a hand over her head.

She shuffles closer, nose nudging into his hip.

He wants to slide down, have her nose at his neck instead, feel her breath on his bare skin.

He wants so badly to hold her as he falls asleep.

And he wants so badly to sleep.

But Wes is good at denying himself, good at restraint, good at holding everything in. He takes a steadying breath, stealing himself against the feeling of Laurel cuddled into him.

There’s a streetlight right outside his window, probably another reason why his rent is cheap.  Even with the blinds closed, fake yellow light infiltrates the space.  It’s never truly dark. 

Wes closes his eyes.

Sometimes, he wishes he could just turn it all off.

 

 

Wes startles at the blare of an alarm.  It feels more like trying to blink through a fog than waking up.

Laurel groans next to him, and the reminder of her presence is all it takes for his consciousness to fully surface—he’s waking up next to Laurel.

The alarm continues to sound a completely unforgiving siren blasting on repeat.

He only has the briefest of moments to savor the feel of her close to him before the arm lying over his legs smoothly retreats and she rolls over and up.

Laurel fumbles with her phone, the alarm rattling his brain as she stabs at the screen.

One furiously whispered “ _vete a la chingada_!” later, the room is blessed with the sweet relief of silence.

Probably woke up the entire floor, as well as the apartments above and below him, but he’s too tired to care.

Laurel is shucking on her jacket, hands rapidly smoothing her hair. 

“You fall asleep?” she says lightly, with just enough lilt to know she’s asking, to know she hasn’t forgotten why she had to pose as his girlfriend yesterday. 

Wes busies himself with throwing a few essentials in his backpack as he shrugs a quick ‘maybe’.

He wonders if she’s remembering all those times where she had tried to force him out of the bed.

It’s not like this is much better.

“Okay,” she says, and takes a deep, steadying breath, “Are you ready to go?”

She wipes her palms down her jeans, straightening nonexistent creases in the fabric.

Wes stuffs a few more files into his bag.

“Alright, let’s do this,” he sighs, near incredulous with the knowledge that he’s flying on an airplane in a few hours to return to Ohio to learn about his mom, with Laurel.

Laurel taps her phone, and her expression tightens as she views the screen. He’s shoved his own phone in his back pocket without even looking at his notifications. There could be thousands of messages; he doesn’t care.

With a huff and a minuet flick of her hair, Laurel throws her phone in her purse and opens the door, exiting the apartment.

Wes takes one last look around.  What has happened to his life?

Laurel’s already one flight down by the time he locks up, but his long legs and her moderate pace has them side by side by the next turn.

It’s dark outside still, with some shades of grey hinting at the approaching dawn.

Laurel’s parked right out the door, her usual spot, and as he settles into her car he’s struck with how familiar it is, her car waiting outside his apartment.

They’re both quiet as Laurel drives down the dead streets.  She doesn’t even put the radio on, or one of the satellite channels that she gets on her display screen.

Wes is not good with makes and models—he doesn’t bike for the exercise—but there is an understated luxury to the car Laurel drives.

He’s never taken note of this about Laurel’s car before, but then this is the first time he’s riding in it since learning that she’s rich, ‘books a spontaneous flight for two without blinking’ rich. 

Or that her father’s rich, that she comes from wealth.

He’s not good with makes and models.  He’s never owned a car. It really could just be average. Averagely nice. It takes a moment to temper the flash of envy the flares in his stomach, regardless.

 This early in the morning, the roads are lifeless, and they make record time to her place.

 Laurel puts the car in park, fingers clenching the wheel in time with the inhale of a deep breath.

She glances at her phone, sitting harmlessly in the center console, screen a demure black.

“Think Frank’ll be there waiting?”         

She never did tell him what the fight was about.  He let her get away with it then, just like he probably will now.

He sees the tension rise and fall in her shoulders before she turns to him.

“No. He’s probably with the rest of them, dealing with whatever the newest crisis is. He might keep calling, but if Annalise needs him, that’s where he’ll be.”

Her grip on the wheel tightens to a knuckle-white once more.

Then she lets go with a gust of a sigh, and opens the door.

He follows her out, and she shoots him a curious look before saying, “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Should I call a cab?” he asks, and it causes her to turn from the entrance to her building, eyebrows slightly scrunched.

“No,” she says, tone almost puzzled, “…we’re taking my car to the airport.”

Her lips quirk into a slight smile, and she shakes her head a little, like he should have known. Irritation briefly runs up his spine—he doesn’t own a car, and if he did, how much does it cost to park?—but it quickly dissipates.  After all, this is much more convenient.

“I’ll be right down,” she assures, and then she’s gone.

Clearly he could’ve waited in the car.  It explains the quick glance she gave him when he exited the car.

Wes sighs, choosing to lean against the passenger door instead of getting back in.  The air is brisk, and maybe the bite will make him feel slightly more awake and alive.

The world is dead around him, the way it gets in the early hours of the morning before even the sun is truly awake. 

He thinks he likes it, as much as he likes anything these days.

 

 

 

Before long, the plane makes its descent, leaving the clouds and exposing the drab Ohioan landscape.

It’s hard to look at the growing buildings of Cleveland objectively.  He never wanted to come back here.

Wes flexes his jaw as the pressure changes.  It dissolves into a yawn.

Laurel is slow to wake, eyes blinking languidly until her blue eyes peer up at him.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asks, her voice quiet and rusty from sleep. The sound of it is so nice and hates how much he wishes he could wake up to that sound.

It's possible he drifted off at some point.  The way he feels, it’s almost impossible to tell. 

He shrugs.  His exhaustion must be evident in his eyes (as always), because Laurel briefly curls her small hand around his wrist, squeezes and lets go.

She stares at him for an extended moment, studying him.  Wes can see her collect her thoughts in the way her lips purse and then tighten into a thin line, in the way her head tilts up to face him more fully.

“Wes,” she starts, and he’s too weak to hold her gaze because he can feel where it’s going, “Wes…”

Fingertips brush lightly on the back of his hand, and his attention snaps back to her, where she’s waiting for him.

“Yesterday, the office… the medication… do you need that?”

Wes sighs, tired eyes moving back to focus on the front of the cabin.

He’s saved by the sudden jolt of the landing. It must catch Laurel off-guard, because her hand clamps down over his own. 

The plane’s momentum forces them forward as the plane fights to stop.

He slowly flips his hand and threads his fingers through hers, holding on.

Wes doesn’t even know if he decided to do it, but he doesn’t let go, not until the plane reaches the gate and they’re signaled to disembark.  She doesn’t press him for an answer, and the relief is palpable. She’ll let it go, for now.

Their hands fall away naturally as they exit the plane like this is something they always do—take trips together, hold hands, travel. 

Like most of the passengers walking off the plane and into the terminal, Wes and Laurel switch their phones off airplane mode.

There’s a minor feeling of dread during the short lag where his phone loads everything he’s missed.

And—as expected—he’s missed a lot.

33 missed calls. Ten voicemails.

Mostly from Bonnie and Michaela.  Seeing their names on his notifications is a little strange, since normally Laurel is how they get in contact with him.

But of course, Laurel is right here, next to him.  Laurel is why he’s not in Philadelphia, let alone the state, the region.

He chances a glance down at Laurel, and he’s unable to keep his eyes of the long repetition of Frank’s name under ‘Missed Calls.’

Wes won’t deny that he’s curious.  He wants to know what Frank did that caused Laurel to barge into his apartment last night with tears still in her eyes. She practically jumped at the chance to go to Cleveland, even though to Wes it had sounded—and still sounds—crazy.

And she’s throwing herself into this plan, the one that takes them away from Philadelphia, with a determination that exposes her avoidance.

 But he decides not to ask.  He and Laurel seem to have settled upon some unspoken agreement to not talk about the issues at home, be it the ones they know about or don’t.  If the recent panic is due to Phillip, he feels infinitely better with he and Laurel out of the state.

There’s something liberating about shucking off the responsibilities he has back in Philly. 

Wes trails Laurel as they make their way to the airport.  He’s only flown once before; it’s a relief to not have to surreptitiously study the signage and pretend like he knows where he’s going.

He finds his eyes drawn to her large purse, with its sleek modern lines and expensive looking leather.  He has his trusty backpack on his shoulders, the same one that carried him through community college, undergrad, and now Middleton.

Watching her back, he absently scratches at his beard. He’s scruffier than he normally tolerates—his facial hair grows in patchy, and if he doesn’t shave it off it requires a little work, some shaping. But Wes has barely had the energy to regularly shower, as of late.  And no matter his exhaustion, he can’t rest.  He probably shouldn’t introduce sharp blades near his face into the equation.

People stream past as they stride towards the exit, and it is at this moment where everything inside him is trying to compress, and then he loses himself, he’s somehow untethered even as sees his feet moving one in front of the other, striking the ground. He can’t feel it.

He can’t feel anything.  For an unknown static-y stretch of seconds, he watches himself follow Laurel as she weaves through the traffic, moving with an authority that splits a path for them to the sliding automatic doors.

When the sun hits his body, he’s behind his eyes again, and he’s in a daze, rotates his head back and forth and clenches his teeth just to feel it.

Someone smacks into his shoulder, causing him to stumble forward a few steps.  He must have stopped walking, and it comes back to him that he needs to find Laurel.

It’s easy, because Laurel is already on the curb, hailing a cab.  With a steadying breath, he steps up next to her.  She doesn’t say anything, just meets his eyes briefly and offers a bracing smile, her focus intentionally going straight back to the street, eliminating the pressure to come up with any kind of response.

 He’s back in Cleveland, back where his mother committed suicide, where he was put through the system, where his entire name got erased.  All for a goose-hunt set up by a woman he shot, who asked him to shoot her. Standing next to the woman who took the fall for him.

 Wes looks down at Laurel, marveling that after all he’s done, after all she’s witnessed him do, she’s still here.

It should probably feel strange, returning to Cleveland with Laurel, but then.

Since they met, they’ve spent most of their time side by side.

Maybe it really isn’t strange at all.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i love wes gibbins. i love laurel. i miss them, i haven't watched the show since it was revealed that he was the one who died. it still hurts. im not crying who's crying you're crying.


End file.
